Under The Old Oak Tree
by icefire-lioness
Summary: Because Ginny knows that Harry doesn’t love her, when she finds herself with someone who can warm her broken heart she doesn’t shy away as she might have done. And in the end, you only need someone to halt your night fears. Right?


It wasn't as though she hated him. No, she could never hate him.

But there was so much pain down that road, and he never even looked at her.

He didn't care, she knew that. So why did she pretend? It wasn't that she couldn't see it; it was just that she _couldn't_.It hurt too much.

And now, all the rage, all the injury, the distress and pain, was finally escaping, and all she could do was run.

And even that wasn't enough any more.

-

The footsteps are getting louder now.

She knows that she shouldn't be there, but the room is so much quieter than anywhere else in the castle, and she needs quiet.

God, if she could just have a moment.

A moment when her mind wasn't racing with thoughts of him.

Her heart tears at her chest as she thinks, beyond all logic, maybe those footsteps are his.

Maybe he is looking for her. But the footsteps are too light, and anyhow, she knows that he is on the pitch, practising.

Where she should be, but isn't.

Why is it so difficult to be near him? What happened to the pact she made with herself? _Don't let him know_.

It seems like such an easy thing to promise. But no, even that is difficult. Because he knows, oh, how couldn't he?

But still, all he does is talk to her as if she is his sister.

Oh, to be someone else. Without the wrench of _him_ always at her heart. Just to be sane, to have a clear mind.

To think of something else. Why is it so hard?

-

Those footsteps just keep coming. Don't they ever stop? They beat in time with her heart. Quickly, quickly. She shouldn't be here.

There's another door, you know. Just behind her. It doesn't take long to get to, but the walk is loud.

Every step echoes on the hollow sounding stone. And all she can do is walk.

There's no-one here to save her.

He isn't. Here.

Won't be, for a long time. If ever.

They say he's a hero, but what can he do for her?

She needs something solid. Something to hold onto. Dreams aren't enough any more.

Maybe she should just run. Running. Could she run from her heart-thoughts? Would it be all that difficult?

It would have to be fast. Because she can always run from him, but thoughts are different. Chasing her.

What can she do but run?

-

If you walk away from something, and you can't hear the sound any longer, is it gone?

Because she can't hear the footsteps, but she knows that he is still walking.

It's the same with her heart. Always leading back. Nothing different.

To have an original thought! Wouldn't that be wonderful?

Not the same, always the same. Him, him, always him.

-

See, the footsteps again. She doesn't know who it is, but who cares, really?

All she knows is him. And again, again.

Always stepping on her heart. Steel capped boots, spikes. Driven deep. Bleeding. So much blood. Metaphorically speaking.

She stops, turns. Look out the window, what do you see? Grey skies. One sky. All grey. Could she fall into it?

The sky is thick with cloud. Shining. A net of fish. If she jumped, would it catch her?

She shivers; holds her cloak tight to her body, the tiny hairs on her arms raised and catching on the thin material.

It isn't pleasant, but what is, these days?

You have to take it as it comes. As what comes? She asks herself, because nothing has come lately.

Everything seems frozen. Or maybe it's just her who is frozen, because everything else moves around her.

While she waits for him.

What is a Prince, if he doesn't rescue you?

Do you have to sit in the window of the tower every day and wait until you realise, finally, that he just isn't coming?

Is it your own fault, for waiting so faithfully?

Is faithfully even the right word?

She touches her reflection in the window, relishing the cold of the pane.

-

Maybe you have to jump.

Maybe you have to tell yourself sooner, because otherwise the parachute disintegrates to nothing and you're left there, alone, without even a parachute to get yourself out.

But she isn't a princess. And there isn't a tower, or even a parachute. And she can only run.

Why running? Why can't she fly? Anything, to get out. Out of her own mind. What a tangled web she weaves.

-

The grass is wet, and she leaves pale footprints in her wake.

She doesn't know where she is going, but the air clears her mind, and she can think properly for the first time in months.

There is a scent of December in the air, and everything is silent.

The sky has darkened since she left her little room, her little tomb.

Dusk sweeps along the horizon like ash, the last vestiges of sunset showing in the heavy clouds.

Pink and orange tinges the grey, turning them softly dappled against the dark sky.

The forest lies in front of her, dark and brooding. It seems perfect to her.

There is a slight noise as she enters, birds flying from their trees, but mostly it is silent, and she enjoys that.

-

The path is hardly a path, but she follows it anyway, deeper and deeper into the forest. Other than the occasional flitter of thought (_was that a bird? Can I go further? It's so dark_), her mind is blissfully empty.

At a certain tree, she falls. The roots are twisted into bodies, lying on the ground, and a warped face stares blankly at her from where she lays.

She finds some kind of comfort from the face, as though it knows how she is feeling, and she reaches for it, stroking the wizened wood softly. It is rough under her hands, a sandpaper cheek, and she draws away.

She is hurt enough, without bringing it on herself.

The tree-face gazes at her as she rises, accusing her of thoughts she may have had, deeds she has not yet committed.

She gazes back, daring it to talk, safe in the knowledge that it cannot, and walks away.

The path opens after a few minutes, the trees further apart, her pace quickening, and she comes upon the small clearing.

It isn't much, but it's enough. The moonlight glances off his hair, and she thinks he is a fallen star. But he isn't that, not quite.

-

He doesn't speak. He never speaks to her. She doesn't know why. Maybe she is too below him even to be worthy of mention.

But this time, he doesn't see her anyway, so she cannot know if he might have done, had he seen her first.

She speaks, low.

"Beautiful."

Sometimes one word is all you need.

He looks at the ground, unseeingly, as though he has not even heard.

She sits next to him, lowering herself onto the dirt under the old oak tree, wondering why she does, even as she does it.

Maybe he's like her, wishing for someone.

It doesn't matter.

She can't be in the forest alone any longer. The wolves are ready, the night is dark. She doesn't have her wand.

Her thoughts are pushing at the edge of her subconscious, and she knows it won't be long until they take over again. To have a clear mind…

His soft voice interrupts her musings.

"You can see stars from the bottom of a well, even in the daylight."

He still isn't looking at her, she notices. His eyes are closed, and he looks as though he is asleep, or on the periphery of dreaming.

She gazes at him, feeling as though she is in a dream. Everything is so surreal.

Nothing feels as though it has consequences.

Perhaps that's why she stays. Perhaps it isn't.

-

He touches her hair with his hand, and she shivers. But he still does not look at her. She closes her eyes, and his voice, deep and soft, washes over her.

"If I were in the bottom of a well, I could look at the stars forever. I would like to be there. So still and silent. Nothing to think of but how big the sky is."

They look at the sky together, and it is so dark, so forever, that she cries out, with pleasure or pain, she is not sure.

He holds her to him, and she goes willingly, as the night is cold.

His breath is ragged, his body warm.

The air is filled with dreams. Nothing is real. A star is reflected in his eye, and she smiles.

There are no thoughts about the other. All of those are firmly rooted in reality, and this is not. So she is free, for a time.

-

His hair shines, and she touches it. It is so soft that she sighs, and he kisses her neck.

"Once more." she says, and he touches the place with one cold finger, making her tremble.

They stay together for a long while, wrapped about each other, whispering the names of others.

They sigh together, shudder together, breathe together, break together.

Their bodies are tuned so tightly that they are near breaking.

Her cry is like a bird, high and beautiful, and he cries into her neck.

She bruises his skin with love, and he hers.

They feel safe, once, then look at the stars, bright wounds in the velvet sky, and have to hold each other.

It is so silent that they hear the stars singing, and it is so beautiful that they cannot stand it.

His body flames in the cool air, and she holds him.

He isn't _him_, but he is enough, and he helps her to forget.

And perhaps she helps him to forget. She doesn't know, but it is right.

And she calls her love's name, and he calls his, and they are fused together so close that she thinks they will never let go.

And they don't, for a time. Until their breathing slows and their sweat becomes cold, and they begin to shake.

And then they unwind themselves from each other, and she kisses him softly.

There is soundless calling, and she holds him while he cries silently.

She wonders what is wrong, but if she asks, the dream will be broken, so she is silent, and she gathers him to her until he has let every tear fall.

-

She licks his cheek; it is salty, and he smiles.

They stand together, and he says; "Thank you."

She kisses his neck and says; "Thank you."

They hold each other until the moon is slipping over the horizon, and he runs a finger down her cheek, wet with his tears, and hers. His fingers run through her hair, turned auburn with damp, and he says; "You are beautiful."

She lets her hands wander through his silver hair, stares into his eyes, grey like the dusk, and says; "Fallen angel, you are star fire."

He smiles and murmurs into her hair.

"Poetry does not become you. But you are more. Thank you."

And she does not know whether to laugh or cry, so she holds him to her instead.

"Any night I would have loved you, but this."

"And I the same."

"You love another?"

"So. And yes."

"And I the same."

"But kiss me, still."

She reaches up to him, and they know nothing but that they are happy, even with someone else, even with each other, and they smile against each others lips.

"Tomorrow?" she asks, and he kisses her neck.

"Tomorrow. Under the old oak tree."


End file.
